Winona Ryder, late of Petaluma, could steal anything: makeup, Saks Fifth Avenue fashion, your heart. Her simple charm could disarm and beguile, almost too cute to be cool. Then she harvested Heathers. As the only non-Heather in the high-school power clique, Veronica wants out. The collected Heathers rule through contempt and conniving—everyone else is so two hours ago. Then she meets J.D. (Christian Slater), and they become a killer couple, literally. “Dear Diary,” she writes, “my teen-angst bullshit now has a body count.” No sweet-smelling flower here, Heathers was a pungent satire that reeked of sexual insecurity, peer pressure, and teen suicide. Gag me with a spoon.